


A Name and a Number

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Angst with a Happy Ending, Codependency, Domestic Violence, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not enough when he leaves you bare and broken and raw.  He always leaves, never spends the night and you never ask him to because you know, you know it would put a halt on the game that he loves and the chase that you crave. </p>
<p>The fact that he leaves makes promise for a next time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Additional warnings:** mention of self harm, suicidal ideation, discussion of noncon (that didn't actually happen)  
>  Rated M for warnings above. There are allusions to sex but no explicit scenes in this one, sorry!
> 
> I didn't realize how hard writing outside of canon would be before I got too deep into this to bail. I got stuck for a while but was inspired to finish after reading [t0talcha0s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/t0talcha0s/pseuds/t0talcha0s) series, [Permanence](http://archiveofourown.org/series/211502), which is like a million times better than this so GO READ IT.  
>    
> The title is a line from The Airborn Toxic Event's album _Dope Machines_ , which I listened to on repeat while writing this and now I can't associate it with anything but this ship.

The sun is still up but the shades are pulled down in an attempt to mask the passage of time. You roll over in bed and brace yourself; the clocks says 5 pm. Another Saturday wasted, another day that was supposed to be better than the last but ended up being exactly the same.

You try to focus on the buzz of the air conditioner as if anything could ever be as loud as your own thoughts. You stick to the sheets with a head full of chemical imbalances, depression that gives way to anxiety that you can’t place. It opens up a sickening void where your guts should be, threatening to bubble over; unwanted, overwhelming, unrelenting. 

The truth is that you’re lonely. You can’t tally up all the boys you’ve kissed or the hearts you’ve broken; you can’t keep track of your mistakes. There were too many people who admired the person they saw and bailed when you showed them how foolish they were. You are overbearing and you know it. You’re so afraid of getting hurt that you’ve learned to strike first. In the beginning it was unintentional; you just wanted them to stay, but now it’s a defense mechanism honed to perfection to keep them away, to keep you safe. If anyone asked (which they never do) you would say you’re happier this way. 

Your memories of good times and bad times bleed together and the ones that really count are the ones you don’t let yourself think about too often. Even the worst times hold meaning close to your heart; they made you grow, turned you into the man you are today, the one you can’t help but hate. 

You decide you’re going out tonight, to put an end this cycle of moping all day and barely sleeping all night. You prefer to be around people rather than be with them, so you decide the club near your house is your destination. You’ve learned to live life like a movie, watching others interact with you in the farthest row. It makes you feel less alone. 

You don’t like to dance and you never had. Too self-conscious to have a good time, you think, looking out at the floor of swaying bodies while staring straight ahead. You could be looking at anyone if your vision wasn’t four beers in and counting. 

Apparently your drunkenness is no deterrent for the tall, bulky male who stands before you with his arms crossed and a scowl on this face, one eyebrow raised in question. 

“Sorry,” you say, realizing he’d said something, “I didn’t catch that.”

“I asked. If you wanted a smoke. Because you look like a guy who needs a smoke.”

Great, you think, straining your eyes to get a better look at him against the contrast of strobe lights in the distance. One of those muscle-head types, you gather. His voice is deep and gravely, his sentences short and fragmented. 

“Good eyes,” you say,” Do I know you from somewhere?” You’ve seen too many clubs and forgotten most everybody’s names. You don’t tell him you don’t smoke. 

“How the fuck should I know?” he growls, “You were the one staring. I was going to ask. The same of you.”

“Yeah, I guess not, sorry. I wasn’t staring, but since you’re offering...” not knowing why, you motion over your shoulder with your thumb towards a side exit, and follow him outside. 

“It’s pathetic,” he starts, talking like he knows you, like he’s teasing an old friend, “How many of you come here. Just to sit around and do fuckall. Like you couldn’t have just stayed home. Got shitfaced. Don’t talk to anyone. Or maybe you’re the voyeuristic type. Is that it?”

You flick his lighter with one hand cupping the end of your cigarette so that hot breeze wouldn’t blow it out. You give him a strange look as you hand it back to him, something between animosity and intrigue. 

“What a charmer. Jesus, you really know how to start a conversation. I didn’t see you dancing the night away either, bro.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “I come here for the atmosphere.” 

You don’t point out how blatantly hypocritical that sounds. “And yet, you targeted me out just to shit talk me? Thanks, man, you don’t know how much that means to me.” You take a long drag on your cigarette, relieved when you don’t cough or choke, and you feel his startling gaze lay heavy on you. 

“From the thing you said just now. I can already tell. That you’re an easy target.” This dude is obviously looking to pick a fight. He might be more muscular but that probably makes him slower. You bet you could take him on. 

“Just tell me what you want from me,” you huff impatiently, throwing your cigarette butt on the already littered ground and stomping it out with your heel. Your bad mood is turning more sour by the minute and you wish you never took him up on his little gesture of 'kindness.' You came here to be alone, so why can’t you just say no?

“I think you know. Exactly what I want from you.”

“Fuck you,” you glower. You could have phrased that better and you realize this when his lips curl up in a hideous smirk. He takes a step towards you, sizes you up, gets all up in your personal space. It should put you off, but it does the opposite, especially since he’s staring at you like a piece of fresh kill and he’s the wolf. “Yeah?” He cocks his head and murmurs in your ear, “Then let’s go.”

“Dirk,” you state, finally giving in. If you’re going to do this, you’re going to give him a name by which to call you. 

“Caliborn,” he says, doing the same. You can’t retrace how you end up from there to his bed.

***

Waking before dawn, you don’t have time to check the clock before you race to the unfamiliar bathroom and throw up in the sink. God, you’re such a lightweight. There’s nothing about the evening leading up to this point that you don’t regret.

You grab your clothes and quickly leave before he wakes, lest you face your shame once the alcohol wears off. You shiver even though the air is hot; your muscles ache and you stumble home with the aid of your phone’s GPS, although you’re sure you mistakenly take the long route. 

You fall into your bed, sore and covered from neck to hips in scratch marks and bruises. You’ll have one hell of a time trying to convince your friends about these ones. They know you’re a bit kinky, but you’re sure the entire right side of your neck leading down to your shoulder is bruised deep purple and will likely turn rainbow overnight. Despite, you wish you had someone to talk to during times like this, someone who wouldn’t lecture you about your unhealthy behavior. _Hey Roxy,_ you don’t type, _I just met the most awful guy at the club last night. You would’ve hated him. I’d never seen a dude so parched in my entire life, but I let him fuck my ass and now I feel so empty I could die._

When sleeplessness turns to restlessness, you drag yourself to the shower and sit under the cool rain of white noise. You have scars on your chest from fights you picked because you thought you could win. You have scars on your thighs from less valiant battles you fought with your own self-loathing and you can remember every one in vivid color, red and orange fireworks behind your eyelids. 

But you don’t do that anymore. You don’t bleed the way you used to.

***

You buy a pack of cigarettes on a whim and smoke them all in one day, sitting alone on the roof of your apartment complex as you often do to think. It’s a passive act of self-pity. You were always proud of your clean bill of health, but lately, your passive attempts at suicide have become more appealing. You take comfort in your mortality, and sometimes you wish you could speed the process along. What really happens is that you end up smoking yourself sick.

You don’t know what compels you to go back to the club that evening, and perhaps it’s just another one of your vices, a new crutch for a new day. After that embarrassing loss of self control you promise yourself you won’t drink as much tonight, but then your nerves catch up to you and and the familiar haze of discarded inhibition fogs up your brain. 

The bartender, looking barely eighteen, slides a shot of something in front of you and you blink up at him, confused. “I didn’t order this,” you say. You never drink hard liquor. 

“But he did,” says the bartender, nodding towards your left. 

You don’t have to look because you know he’s there, and you wonder how the fuck you didn’t notice him before. He appeared out of nowhere, flickered into existence just to torment you. Your stomach drops, your blood runs ice cold and you concentrate on the little beads of condensation on the glass in front of you, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find this a little exciting. 

“What do you want,” you say flatly, turning to face him. Maybe you were too drunk to notice the first time, but he is _gorgeous_. His eyes aren’t as red as you initially thought; they’re more of a deep amber that flickers vibrantly under the neon lights. He’s bald, too, and while you usually don’t go for that, it looks good on him. 

“I could ask you the same thing if I didn’t know the answer. It’s been twenty-four hours, Dirk. And you couldn’t stay away.” 

You can’t argue with what you know is true: there is no other reason you came to the club tonight. You give in, too easily for comfort, and knock back your drink. 

Your head is buzzing, vision blurry but not too blurry to admire the way Caliborn's taut muscles move under his shirt and if you weren't staring before, you are now. He's the opposite of your lanky build and with skin so dark it makes your tanned skin looks pale in comparison. 

The idea that he can steer you off track with just a few words drives you wild, sets you ablaze. You want to touch him, feel him, explore every part of him with your hands and mouth and wretched soul. 

The sting in your ass from before makes round two feel that much better.

***

You ache for him when he’s not around. Everything about the guy pisses you off—his cockiness, how unfairly hot he is, the way he throws you around like a windsock and never sticks around after sex—and it only makes you want him more. You know you should want nothing to do with him, but you would do anything for him just to get back in his bed.

It’s not all about the sex, and that's the truth. But then sex, however meaningless, has never been just about sex to you. It just so happens to be easier than talking and that’s fine because neither of you are very good at it. The way he circles around you like a shark, that look in his eyes before he makes you his, it's absolutely enticing. You’re center of his loathsome attention and that’s all you need to be. It brings you security, the way he dominates you. You find it in the moments when you’re entwined. It’s in the breath you hold so you don’t scream his name too loudly. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of tearing it from your lips; it’s the only shred of dignity that remains intact. 

It’s a fucked up arrangement, but then so are you. 

You let him rip you to pieces because he can, tear you to shreds because you’re powerless to stop him, but you choose this. He gets under your skin so easily, you both know, peeling back the layers and sinking his claws into your framework. It’s not enough when he leaves you bare and broken and raw. He always leaves, never spends the night and you never ask him to because you know, you know it would put a halt on the game that he loves and the chase that you crave. 

The fact that he leaves makes promise for a next time.

***

The seasons change but the Texas heat is an almost year-round affliction with a few colder days scattered sparsely in between. You keep the air conditioner running even on days like these, wrapped in blankets, just listening to the rattling hum, the comforting murmur of an old familiar friend.

Sometimes you go up for up to a week without seeing him, but it's usually only a few days. It’s excruciating; his absence is as much of a relief as leaves an empty crater somewhere inside you. You only hold back because you don’t want him to know how hooked you are, how addicted you’ve become. 

The club is your designated meeting ground, your neutral territory. He doesn’t try to find you elsewhere, when you’re out with your friends or even by yourself, because he knows he doesn’t have to. You show up as you please and he’s always there when you do. You get a sick satisfaction to think that he’s there even when you’re not, waiting on happenstance for you to arrive, but it’s highly unlikely. You feel like he knows your every move. 

At times when you find yourself missing Jake are when you panic, drop everything and run to Caliborn, which is the reason you’re here tonight. You would rather hurt in the present than hurt others in the past. 

You’re in love with the idea of dying so much that you almost wish it was real, that someday he will rip you open literally, deal the finishing blow and never sew you up again. He makes you realize your mortality even through metaphor. You breathe best with his hands around your throat; you sleep soundest with bloody scratches stinging the skin down your back. 

You love the violence. All of it, that is, until he finds you drunkenly pressed between another boy and the wall. Caliborn wasn’t there when you arrived at the club and when you couldn’t find him you took shots of hard liquor until your panic subsided. Trashed out of your skull, you don’t know who is grinding between your thighs and you don’t care. You thought you’d been abandoned, up until the point when you catch his eye over the boy’s shoulder and you know you’re screwed. 

You expect a fight to break out right there in the crowd, an explosion of fury that would bring the building crashing to the ground. But he turns and walks away from you like he hasn’t seen a thing, like he doesn’t care, and for some reason you can’t stand it. You shove the boy off you without explanation and and run after Caliborn, out the front door and into the parking lot. 

“Wait,” you plead to his back as he keeps on walking. “Just....wait. I can explain.” No, you can’t. You’re just grasping at air. 

He stops, he turns, there’s a dark shade in his eyes.

“I would love. To hear you try. And talk your way out of this one.” His fists are clenched so hard his veins are bulging. You’ve never seen him like this before and of all the times you had to start being afraid, this is it. 

“It’s not like we were exclusive or anything!” you defend, voice cracking. 

“We were a thing, Dirk. A fucking _thing._ And then you had to go and ruin it.” He takes a step towards you, then another. The calmness in his voice terrifies you. You wish he would yell, get emotional, do something. 

“No we weren’t!” you shout, making exaggerated hand gestures and making up for the emotion he lacks, “We never fucking dated! We never even _talked_ about dating. I was just something to put your dick in, so don’t fucking get all pissy at me for not asking your permission to see someone else!” 

He’s up in your face now, seething through flared nostrils, struggling to find words and when he can’t, he drives a closed fist into your jaw with a loud crack. You hear it before you feel it. In the time it takes to realize what happened, you've fallen onto the pavement, more stunned by concept than the pain. 

You would normally be back on your feet within seconds, ready to strike but this time you just sit on your ass with a busted lip and blood trickling down your skinned elbows, waiting for his next blow. But it doesn't come. In fact he just stands there, looking down at his still-clenched fist, then at you, then back to his hand like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. 

You stare at each other. You too stunned to do much else, not to mention really drunk. Time has stopped and there’s just the two of you, his bloody knuckles and your throbbing head. You watch him open and close his mouth a couple of times. He wipes his hand off on his shirt. 

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean, I’m—”

“Oh, this is rich. You didn’t what?” You try and coax it out of him, whatever it is. An apology? You doubt it. You never thought you’d see the day when you would hear him stutter. 

“I didn’t mean to. Dirk, I'm sorry.” He sounds five years old. You hate the way he says your name. 

“Really?” you almost laugh in disbelief. “Because you just fucking did! You want to take it back?” 

“I can’t take it back, idiot.”

“It was a rhetorical question, idiot. How pissed _are_ you? Why do even fucking care?”

“Because,” he starts, “I can’t stand to see you with someone else. It makes me so angry. Because you’re mine.”

Rage bubbles up in you. This is exactly what you’d been telling yourself: that you are his, that he owns you, that you’re addicted and can’t stay away. That blow to the head must have rattled something loose. What on earth were you thinking?

“I don’t belong to anyone, you goddamn psycho! The fact remains that we never dated. Are you so daft that you can’t grasp the concept of a fling?”

“I know what a fling is. A one-time thing. What we had was more than that. We had. Several times together. Over several weeks. To my understanding, that is not a fling.” 

He's got you there. Technically he is correct, but that doesn’t make you wrong either. 

“Yeah, okay,” you finally pull yourself to your feet and immediately wish you hadn’t. You’re dizzy from alcohol or a possible yet highly unlikely concussion or both, and you dramatically sway from side to side until you regain your balance. “It would have been nice to know this, like, two months ago. You could have stayed over just once, and I know that shit is hard but we could have talked about it, established boundaries and avoided the disaster we have here now.” 

“Yeah, I’d say. It’s a fucking disaster. And I do.” He wipes his knuckles when they start to bleed again. “Don’t put all the blame on me. You never asked me to stay.”

You vision blurs around the edges and you feel faint, but you have a point to make, god dammit. “Shut up. This whole time you apparently dedicated so much time and energy into me? You can stick a fucking fork in it. Because it’s over, Caliborn. It’s fucking done.”

“No,” he says, and you can’t tell if it's a plea or a command but either way he sounds hurt. You've never seen him hurt before. It was always straight up possessive with him, and possessiveness isn’t even an emotion. 

“Yes,” you correct him, “You don’t get to decide this time. I said it’s over, so it’s over. So kindly fuck off and leave me alone.” You try to walk away in the direction of your car, and not only do you stumble but you completely lose your balance. You prepare to hit the pavement again when two strong arms catch you. You wish they hadn’t. You wish he’d let you fall. 

“Fine, whatever,” he says, “But you’re in no condition to drive home. Or go wherever the fuck you were about to. You stay the fuck away from that car, unless you have a death wish.” 

You scoff. “Maybe I do,” you slur out with a hint of truth, and he grabs you by the wrist. 

“Give me—give someone your fucking keys. I’m not leaving until you do.” 

“Alright, alright,” you sigh, aggravated, “Just....just don’t touch me. I can stand on my own.”

You black out after that point.

***

Daylight peers through the crack in the window but it looks more like a floodlight shining directly into your eyes.

You groan, trying to remember, but your mind is a blank slate. The only certainties are ones you see in the present: your pants are gone and and this is the shittiest futon anyone has ever had the misfortune to lie upon. This place is way too familiar. It takes a few moments to recognize it, but you slowly come around, fighting your way through the delusional haze that comes with what you deem as the worst hangover of your life. You drank so much that you must have blacked out; the thing that tips you off is that the boxers you’re wearing are several sizes too big. You start to panic. 

“Caliborn! You piece of shit! Show yourself or I swear I will kick your fucking ass!” You shout to the empty room. That familiar tingle of nausea sweeps over you and you can barely quell your reflexes to keep from throwing up all over yourself. 

Caliborn appears in the doorway as if summoned, leaning on the frame in a t-shirt and boxers. Green, the same as yours. “Dirk. I think we both know. That you are in no condition to kick anyone’s ass.” 

“Fuck you. You’re unbelievable, you know that, right? You have done literally the worst thing someone can do to another person—you _knew_ I was blackout fucking drunk—and you have the audacity to stand there like it was nothing. Like it’s totally fine! What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with me for trusting you? Christ, I should have seen this coming from miles away—”

“Shut up! Will you shut the fuck up, for one minute? I know what you think. And you’re wrong. I know what this looks like. And you’re still wrong.” 

“Okay, I'll shut up and let you have that one minute to explain yourself before I flip my shit and call the cops.” You’re seething but morbid curiosity trumps blind rage. “First question: where are my pants?”

“Ugh. You pissed yourself, asshole.” He pulls a disgusted face and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You think I had nonconsensual sex with you. No, you pissed your pants in my fucking car. I wasn’t about to let you get piss all over my futon, too. So I removed them. Case closed.”

“Case not closed,” you spit, thoroughly embarrassed underneath your anger. “That only leads me to my next question: what the fuck was I doing in your car? I clearly remember telling you to fuck off and that we were done. The last thing even my drunk ass would do is get into a car with you.”

“Contrarily. You were trashed. And furious. And insisting on driving yourself home. But I said, fuck that. I drove you because, one: there wasn’t a goddamn person in that club who would agree to take your slobbering drunk ass anywhere. And two: you were too inebriated to give coherent directions. So I brought you here, and gave you dry clothes—you’re fucking welcome, by the way. And that’s the end of the story. Any questions?” 

You stew quietly while your brain works overtime to process all this information. You want to be angry, need something to keep this momentum going or you’ll burn out and give in. You don’t remember any of it, nothing after he punched you in the head, and while that worries you, his story adds up. 

“Yeah, just one,” you growl, “Why should I believe you? You’re so full of shit, Caliborn. I rejected you and like the coward you are, you couldn’t take it—”

You don’t notice him steal into the other room until he comes back, chucking a pair of piss-soaked jeans at you. They’re definitely cold, definitely yours and definitely nothing you want to smell nor deal with. You dump them on the floor and stare at him, eyes calculating. “Mother fuck,” you whisper, searching his face for something, anything you could call him out on, but he just looks weary, eyelids sagging over bloodshot eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, averting his gaze. At least that's what you think you hear as he sinks to the floor and hugs his knees from across the room. 

“What was that?” You want to hear it again. You want to be the one who makes him say it. 

“I am sorry, Dirk. I hit you. I shouldn’t have. But I did. And I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you try to sound at least half-sincere but you still feel like shit, mentally and physically. At least you’re able to sit up and swing your legs over the side of the futon without falling or puking so that’s a win in itself. “This doesn’t change anything, though. Just because you helped me out this time.” 

“I know,” he says, and god, he looks pathetic and it’s wonderful. 

“Can I just...borrow some pants or something? I’ll walk home. I need to clear my head. Just, not looking like...” You motion to yourself, practically naked.

He grabs you a pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, ones you presume he won't miss. 

“So uh,” you aren’t good with goodbyes. “See you around or not, actually. Thanks for last night, though.”

You grab your shit—glasses, keys, shoes, and you think that’s it—and you’re out the door. Maybe he watches you leave. You don’t look back to check.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where things start looking up. I'm not sure why, but It felt natural to split this into two chapters. 
> 
> There are no additional warnings for this chapter, aside from being horribly un-beta'd and also lots of awkward dialogue.

It’s a rare occasion when you walk to work. Usually you can’t be bothered, but the weather is nice when you get up so why the hell not? It’s only a ten minute drive, so you decide to leave home early and grab breakfast on the way. 

The forecast is for clear skies all week but when you get off your shift, it’s pissing rain. You curse to yourself, wearing only a thin t-shirt to cover your back from the downpour. It’s not like you have another choice; you really don’t want to burden Roxy—the only one of your friends with a car—and you would be soaked before you could walk to the bus stop anyway. You grit your teeth and step out into the rain to make the long trek home. 

It’s not as cold as it is raw and your soaked clothes aren’t keeping you from shivering. More importantly, it’s hard to see or hear traffic and you only notice the cars when they speed past by the muddy sheets they spray up onto the sidewalk. 

You’re about halfway home when a familiar green Honda rolls up to the curb and beeps its horn in a rhythmic pattern that’s supposed to be friendly, but in this case it makes your stomach turn. The rational part of you says to ignore it, to keep on walking because fucking hell this is the last thing you need right now, but the soaked and freezing part overcomes, and you turn to face the driver. 

Who else but Caliborn rolls down the window to greet you, leaning one elbow over the side like he was about to say something but froze up at the last minute. 

“Caliborn,” you greet him sternly, “Didn’t think I’d see you here.” Or anywhere ever again, you don’t say. 

“You look like you could use a ride.” 

Deja vu sweeps through you; that line sounds awfully familiar. You’ll admit this isn’t what you were expecting, but given the circumstances it’s as good of a pickup line as any, or at least the most practical. 

“Why?” you plead over the deafening rain, your heart lurching, “Why are you doing this?”

Caliborn rolls his eyes. “I can go if you want. I was just passing. I thought I saw a drowning rat. But it turned out to be you.” 

He retracts his arm inside the car looking more than a little disgruntled, and you notice the little rivulets of water dripping down his skin. 

“Bullshit,” you say, “I know you wouldn’t stop for a rat, drowning or otherwise. But you know what? Sure. It’s only five minutes away, but if you’re feeling charitable, then whatever.” You can do this. You have self control; you’re not his little bitch anymore. You can accept a ride from a dude without looking like a huge weenie; it’s either that or a stubborn brat, and you know who that characteristic is reserved for. 

“Get in,” he says. You round the front of the car and climb into the passenger seat. “Just don’t piss yourself this time.” 

“Jesus Christ,” you groan, suddenly regretting the whole thing. “I’m still gonna soak the seat, asshole. Consider your upholstery screwed. If you haven’t noticed, I’m _drenched._ ” 

“At least I won’t have to explain that to the cleaners,” he snorts, revving the engine, and you laugh too. 

“You seriously take your car to the cleaners?”

“You don’t?” 

“Uh, that’s part of my job. Not _cleaning_ cars, I mean, kind of. I work at an auto body repair shop.”

“Oh,” he says, flatly, “I didn’t know that.” 

“You would have if you’d asked.”

“I’m still in school,” says Caliborn. You didn’t expect him to be, he looks older than you, but after that you don’t think much of it. 

“What for?” you inquire. 

“Dunno yet. Art, maybe.”

“I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“You would have if you’d asked.”

“Damn. I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

The two of you sit in silence for the remainder of the drive. The next tow minutes are excruciating until he pulls up to your apartment complex. You want to bolt so badly but you realize in terror that you might not want this moment to end so soon. 

“We’re here,” he says, like you need a signal. You ignore him.

“You know, I think that was first casual conversation we’ve had.” 

“And?”

“And....I don’t know. Forget it.” You fling the door open and just as you’re about to hop out, he tells you to wait. You whip your head around and see him scribbling something on a scrap of paper, which he then hands to you. A seven digit number is scrawled in near illegible handwriting. You squint at it, and maybe he thinks you don’t understand. You’re actually in shock. 

“My number. Throw it out if you want to. Just, if you ever need a ride. Or something.”

“Yeah, okay,” You take the note and shove it carelessly into your pocket, making certain that he sees just how much you don’t care. 

You wave a half-hearted goodbye. You say it because you know, past the part of you that thinks you won’t, that you might: “See you, Caliborn.” 

You step out, walk inside, and he’s gone.

***

You head to the washer as soon as you get inside. There’s barely enough room to move in your little half bathroom, half laundry room but you manage to strip off your wet clothes. You hate the way they stick to your skin—it’s a tactile thing—and cringe when they peel off your clammy skin like shrink wrap.

You almost toss your jeans in with the rest of your rain-sodden clothes, but you contemplate the note in your pocket as you shiver and shake and eventually fish it out, hoping the ink will be too smeared to read. Unfortunately (or fortunately, you don’t know) the digits are intact. You set it aside like a bad omen, start the washer and hurry to your room where you throw on some sweats and the only hoodie that’s clean: Caliborn’s. 

It takes a good half hour for you to stop shivering, and another for your jaw to unclench and your muscles to relax. You hate to think you owe it to Caliborn that you didn’t freeze before you got home.

***

You’re never truly alone with your thoughts. They make for terrible conversation and they come fast and loud like a bullet train and your head is Grand Central Station. It’s enough to drive a man insane. Maybe that’s why you start to break down.

You find yourself spacing out at work more often than usual, thinking about him while you’re covered in motor oil with your head under a suspended car. It’s not like it was before when you held yourself at a distance from the whole world. You’re beginning to open up and it’s terrifying just how exposed it makes you feel. 

You meant it when you said you weren’t his bitch anymore. You’re not, and that’s the honest to god truth. You don’t miss what you had; instead, you miss what you didn’t but could’ve had if only the circumstances were different. You yearn for the company and maybe you always had but were blinded by your fear of abandonment and giving him what he wanted was the only way you thought you could keep him. 

It’s a stupid idea, and you know it. It’s stupid and bad and foolish and a whole list of red flags lined up past the horizon but they don’t stop you from stepping out into the minefield. You unfurl the note that's been haunting your laundry room (seriously, your anxiety spikes whenever you go in there and you’ve been putting off doing laundry for days because of the temptation that lurks). 

Your hands are shaking when you enter the number in your phone, saving “Caliborn” in your address book and fuck, now your heart is racing and you feel a panic attack coming on. If you melt down from merely seeing his name in your contacts, how the fuck are you going to call or even text him? Not only do you you struggle fantastically with what to say, your trembling fingers hit all the wrong keys. You can’t concentrate, so you abandon the task altogether. You need to collect the pieces of your scattered mind and allow your sympathetic nervous system time to chill the fuck out.

***

Your shift ended some fifteen minutes ago, and you’re still sitting in your car at work with the engine running, AC on full blast, some mainstream generic hip-hop station playing through your shitty speakers. You aren’t going anywhere, you’re just sitting and stewing and dreading going back to your apartment alone. There’s nothing special about today, but loneliness creeps up on you fast. You can’t stomach the thought of another afternoon spent brooding in your bedroom so, like many things, you avoid it for as long as you can.

You could text any of your friends. Roxy would love to hear from you, and you’ve even patched things up with Jake enough that hanging out with just the two of you is no longer excruciatingly uncomfortable for both parties. 

You could text anyone, and you choose Caliborn. 

What you end up doing for the better part of a half hour is stare at your phone, watching the battery die as you sift through your brain, scrambling for purchase on any thoughts, any words you might say to him. 

You could pick an easy way to cop out. Maybe you’ll wait until the next rain, conveniently leave your car at home and contact him out of desperation. (You can hear his voice ringing loud in your head: _How fucking transparent. I thought you would be tougher to crack, Strider)._

Or you could be a fucking adult about it and ask him to meet you somewhere with no shitty pretense. Why is it such a big deal? Why does the truth feel like the hardest option of all? 

“Hey.”

You hit send and hold your breath, immediately wishing you could intercept the message and take it back before it reaches Caliborn. When your phone vibrates, you physically jump. 

“HELLO, DIRK.”

Your face turns hot and you fumble with the keys, your hands locking up and making it difficult to type your next message. 

“Do you want to like, hang out?”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, HANG OUT.”

“Exactly what it sounds like. Just, you know. Hang out.”

“YOU ALREADY SAID THAT. HOWEVER. LET ME REMIND YOU. UP TO THIS POINT, I THOUGHT YOU HATED ME. UNLESS THAT HAS SUDDENLY CHANGED.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘suddenly.’ It’s been a process. God, I don’t know.” Maybe this was a bad idea. “I just wanted to see you, I guess?”

“YOU GUESS? MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND.” 

“DO YOU WANT TO *HANG OUT* OR ARE YOU FUCKING ME AROUND?”

“NOT LIKE I DON’T DESERVE IT. BUT I LITERALLY CAN’T TELL. OVER TEXT.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not messing with you, I swear. If you’re up for it, we could meet somewhere. You can say no.”

“DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE ME. I AM PERFECTLY CAPABLE OF SAYING NO.”

You groan. This is just beneath physically painful on the discomfort scale. His barrage of texts continue. 

“I GAVE YOU MY NUMBER, DUMB ASS.”

“I DIDN’T REALIZE I WAS BEING SO SUBTLE. OR ARE YOU JUST DENSE?”

“DON’T BOTHER ANSWERING THAT.”

“YES, DIRK. I DO WANT TO SEE YOU. WHEN AND WHERE.”

“Ron’s coffee? I just got off work.”

“BE THERE IN 20.”

A fancy and locally owned coffee shop....what were you thinking? You could’ve suggested a worse place, you suppose. 

You tap out one last message before setting your phone aside and driving away. 

“Sure. See you there.”

***

You arrive a few minutes early but Caliborn is already there, seated at a table and two coffees in front of him. Taking a seat, you belatedly realize that one must be for you.

You greet him by saying, “This is not a date.” Brilliant fucking move, Strider. Retribution kicks you in the back of the head, with Caliborn in toe. 

He throws his hands in the air, looking almost comically offended. “Hi Caliborn, how are you?” he mocks, “I’m great, Dirk! And you?” He glares, and you immediately feel like a dickhead. “Who the fuck said this was a date? Nobody. Besides you. Just now.”

Realizing the person you were trying to convince was yourself, you’re at a loss for words. You motion vaguely to the table. “The coffee?”

“Oh. Fuck. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that a friendly gesture between pals. Was an outdated concept.”

“We’re not exactly what I’d call pals, either.” Jesus, Strider, would it kill you to be nice to him? It might, actually. You accept the coffee anyway.

“Don’t be so quick to forget,” he sneers, “That you wanted to meet me in the first place.”

“I’m just saying, because I know I lead you on before.” 

“No shit. Thanks for the reminder.”

You slowly drive the heel of your palm into your temple, then scrub your fingers through your hair. “I’m sorry,” you say, sighing deeply and relaxing your shoulders, “I didn’t mean to be an asshole. It’s just....around you. I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“I don’t know!” Your heart is beating faster and you try to suppress another panic attack. You hate yourself so goddamn much right now. So what if he leaves you exposed, just as he always has? Buck up, Strider. Time to clean up this mess. 

“A lot of things,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t sound too shaky, “Uh, think, for example? I’m terrible at setting boundaries. I rush into things way too fast and _always_ fuck up my relationships, romantic or otherwise. I'm kind of a mess, if you haven't noticed. When I'm around you, all that shit becomes harder to deal with because I....because I don't want to fuck this up. Not again.”

Caliborn leans back in his seat, arms crossed and coffee forgotten. “That’s all I wanted to hear, Dirk. Is you. Being honest with yourself. Because you have this notion that no one is honest with you. You’re the biggest fucking hypocrite I know.” 

You look down, examining the wood grain on the table. You scratch the backs of your hands with blunt nails. The dull pain keeps you grounded, keeps you from bolting out of there. 

“So I will reward you,” continues Caliborn, “With some of my own honesty. This is not a date. But I would not be opposed to one. In the future.” 

You know your face is red when you look back at him, searching him for any sign deception but can detect none. 

“If I agree to go on a date with you, will you stop all this coy shit? Giving me your number. Doing me favors I didn't ask for. Acting like it’s not a date when that’s exactly what you want it to be. I can’t handle any more of your mind games. You don’t know what it does to me psychologically. I can’t do this anymore, Caliborn. It’s all or nothing, take it or leave it.”

“So you’re giving me options,” he starts, slowly.

“Yeah. I am.”

“And one of those options is to leave you alone.”

You nod.

“And the other?”

You slam your fist down on the table, not out of anger, but to interrupt your doubting thoughts, to scare the words out of your mouth and when they do, you’re nearly shouting, “To actually date me! You really fucked me up, dude. Every day since....well, every day without you has been hell, and I shouldn’t want anything to do with you, but I want to get to know you. Do the shit people involved with each other do besides getting drunk and fucking.”

You both sit in silence for a long time, vaguely aware of the fact that people might be staring after that outburst. You sip your coffee just for something to do while he thinks it over. You can tell he’s thinking from the twisted expression on his face, his brain hard at work. 

“I’m not good with this shit,” he admits, “I don’t know much besides getting drunk and fucking. But I will learn. So yes, Dirk. I want to give it a try.” 

You don’t realize you had been holding your breath until you exhale. You almost want to laugh; you can’t believe this is real. 

“I have one condition,” you say.

“I’m listening.”

“If we’re going to do this, we’re taking it slow or else we’ll wind up back where we were.”

“Reasonable. I have a condition of my own.”

“That’s fair. Let’s hear it.”

“If we’re going to do this,” he growls and leans in, bracing himself with an elbow on the table, “We are going to be exclusive.”

You nod, smiling despite the intensity of his glare. “That’s the idea.”

He sits back, looking relieved and significantly less menacing. “Good.”

***

It’s been exactly two weeks since you started dating Caliborn. You’ll admit it was a rough start for both of you, but once you break through the awkward phase of indecisive back-and-forths about whose house you should go to, you feel like you might really have something here.

You never thought you would be sitting on the hood of your car atop a hill, having just watched a sunset with anyone, let alone Caliborn. Yet here you are, legs dangling over the bumper with his hand cupped loosely over yours. The air is cool enough for long pants and sweaters, and you’re wearing one of his hoodies. It’s a different one, a more recent acquisition than the ratty loaner you still have in your closet. You like wearing his clothes and you know he likes it when you do. 

You suggested a drive-in movie based solely on the fact that you know you can sneak up here where there’s a decent view of the big screen for free, but you’re grateful for this atmosphere. “It’s disgusting,” he says and you agree because you know he means romantic. 

You slide closer to him when the film starts. If he asks, you’ll blame it on the weather. But he doesn’t; he takes the initiative to throw his arm around you and _god_ you’re glad it’s too dark to see how flushed your cheeks are. It’s just an arm. It’s just his shoulder your face is pressed into. You just want to melt into him and you think maybe this is how you’re supposed to feel. 

In all honesty, it’s a shitty movie that you don’t even know the name of. You were too busy drifting through your newfound headspace to watch the opening credits. No longer plagued with anxieties about every minuscule thing or trying to narrate through every possible outcome of any given situation, you actually have time to enjoy yourself. The air is crisp and peaceful and you wonder—not worry—about whether the feeling will last. 

Caliborn doesn’t seem to care about the movie either. He reclines, leaning his back on the windshield and pulling you down with him. You meet his eyes and yeah, you’re both thinking the same thing. You shift inwards facing him, daring to tuck your head right under his jaw, nuzzling his neck a bit. You can hear his heart beating faster, feel the pounding of his pulse against your ear. You grin, feeling like a live wire, electricity coursing through your veins. 

“Dirk,” he says, a bit shaky, and you feel your name vibrate through his vocal chords and it shakes you to your core. 

“Hm?”

“I’m going to kiss you.”

It’s not a question; it’s a warning. One you heed and simultaneously discard, craning your neck to reach him. It’s chaste, at first, but you’re the one who bites his lip and works your tongue between his teeth. You only break the kiss to breathe but you’re back at it in a second, ready to drink him down. You don’t know where you think your hands will end up when you start sliding them down his sides. You might fuck him right here on the hood of your car, but that’s fine. Somehow you know it will be different. 

_That’s a terrible idea,_ your mind interjects, and for once you think it’s right. A slight breeze has picked up and the air feels colder now, cold enough that you wouldn’t want to take off your hoodie, or any other article of clothing, for that matter. 

“We should stop,” you say with ragged breath. He nods and you catch the disappointment on his face. “What I mean is, we should take this elsewhere, if you want to.”

“Is that even a question,” Caliborn laughs through a sigh of relief, “You know me. Of course I fucking want to.” 

It’s all you can do to mind the speed limit driving home.

***

Your bed is way more comfortable than the cold metal of your car, and much warmer now that Caliborn is in it. You lie face to face, drinking in each other's breath.

He asks, “Are you nervous?” suddenly more hesitant than before.

“Um, maybe a little?” you reply, your own doubt evident in your voice, “I feel like I’m 16 years old and this is my first time. With you, with anyone, even though it’s far from it.”

“I have that feeling, too,” he admits, stroking your windswept hair. “Being with you. Has been eye-opening.”

“How so?” you ask, pressing your forehead to his. 

“I never knew what it was like. To actually care about someone. And to be cared about.”

You wish you could find the words to express just how much you do care. Words are something you’re still working on, so in the meantime you kiss him again.

It takes off from there, a running jump into the blissful unknown. 

You stay up most of the night, physically exhausted but emotionally rejuvenated. Your endorphin high lasts until morning, when darkness gives way to dawn, a colorless blue cast over your bodies. With your back against his chest and his arm around yours, you drift off to sleep. He stays—of course he stays—and you think that finally, you’re finally ready to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe this is actually done. I have a terrible habit of starting projects and never finishing them, but since this ship is so rare I felt like I had to. :B
> 
> I'll admit I don't enjoy writing humanstuck as much as I do Weird Alien Stuff. The next fic I write with these two will definitely be at some point in canon. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [lucifur](http://lucifur.co/) (main) / [spaceskip](http://spaceskip.tumblr.com/) (HS sideblog)


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